You Would Always See the Signs
by SweetenedSpoilers
Summary: Five times Derek needed Stiles, and one time Stiles needed Derek


**AN: The beginning scene was inspired by some fanart I saw on tumblr, and the rest kind of spiraled from there. Hope it didn't get away from me too much. I thought it might be fun to try my hand at the "5+1" trope, so hope you like it. Many thanks to my friend S, who was a partial beta for this fic and encouraged me to write it. The title comes from the song "Shell Suite" by Chad Valley. It's one of my favorites.**

* * *

_You, you would always see the signs  
The echoes in my head they rhyme  
I feel we never went at all  
Tomorrow is another day  
I don't know when I'll feel anymore  
Feeling all this things before  
And all that I would do…_

* * *

1

Derek couldn't shift. The memories of cloyingly sweet floral perfume and soft hands, of plumes of acrid black smoke and the scent of scorched hair and burnt flesh, were holding his wolf hostage like a wolfsbane-bullet-filled gun. When he had found out what happened, he wanted nothing more than to transform into something else; claws and teeth extended, the wolf taking over so he could just run and run and _run_ for miles, until his hands and feet bled, healed, and bled again. All he wanted to do was forget for a little while—but he couldn't _shift_.

The horror and guilt had slammed down like a cold metal cage, locked up tight in a way that he knew would last for the rest of his life. And now he was trapped, prisoner inside a body that wouldn't shift, in a rickety wooden chair in the Beacon Hills police station as some frazzled human deputy tried to get ahold of Laura.

They kept flashing through his mind—Kate laughing, Talia telling him that his eyes were nothing to be ashamed of, Peter visiting him at the high school, Laura and Cora forcing him to carry their bags on shopping trips, his cousins running around the house. It was an endless and relentless loop.

He didn't realize that his hands—hands smudged with ash, just like the rest of him—were shaking until a smaller one, a child's hand, rested over one of his. Derek jerked away from the touch, balling his fingers into a fist and digging his blunt human nails into his palm to create red and white crescent moons that faded instantly from his skin.

He looked up, scowling, to find a young boy, maybe around eight or nine years old, with big brown eyes and close-cropped hair. He fidgeted from foot to foot, wringing the hem of a batman t-shirt in his left hand and holding something out to Derek with the other. Derek's eyes darted down to find a stuffed gray wolf, the glossiness scraped away from its plastic eyes from scratches and teeth imprints, the ears threadbare-thin and the fake fur matted in places from years of petting and holding.

Derek thought, distantly, how toys like this—well-worn, well-loved possessions—had been strewn throughout the house just a few hours ago, before they were engulfed in flames just like everything else.

"I…" the boy started. He met Derek's gaze. "This is for you. He's gotten me through a rough time, but I think you need him more than I do."

Derek didn't know how to respond. He felt numb all over, distanced from everything, and he opened and shut his mouth several times, struggling to react somehow.

The deputy looked over and sighed, putting the clunky phone back into its cradle. "Stiles," he said gently. "I don't think he wants to be bothered right now. And he's a bit too old for stuffed animals, buddy."

"But Dad—"

The boy—Stiles—continued to protest, turning toward the police officer and taking his attention away from Derek. Derek tuned them out, because the thing was, he wasn't too old. For stuffed animals, sure, but not for…_this_. This guilt, this weight of despair and terror that was _crushing_ him.

Derek was sixteen.

Sixteen, and not even close to being strong enough to carry the burden of a murdered family on his shoulders.

He swallowed hard, not sure how steady his voice would be if he tried to use it, and took the wolf out of the hand now hanging at Stiles' side. He looked down at it, letting out a shaky breath as he felt his claws finally extend, just a little, and he clutched the stuffed animal tight.

He looked up again after a beat to see the deputy watching him sadly, and that's when Derek felt his expression harden, close off, and the deputy looked away.

Derek would take comfort if it was offered, but he couldn't handle pity.

He wasn't sure he could keep himself from shattering if he saw that look on anyone else's faces.

The deputy turned his attention to his son again and made an aborted movement with his arm, as if he was about to stroke his hand over the boy's hair but stopped at the last minute, perhaps realizing that it was too short to run fingers through. He clapped his hand on Stiles' shoulder instead and cleared his throat, determination and understanding now written across his features as he made eye contact with Derek.

"Your sister is on her way," he said.

2

Stiles and Scott had been stomping through the forest for the better part of the afternoon, sneakers kicking up dried leaves as they searched in vain for Scott's inhaler. The ground was still damp from last night's rain, and water was starting to seep into the bottom of Stiles' shoes. He was cold, it had been a long day, and despite how fun the werewolf jokes were becoming, he was ready to go home.

Scott was crouched over what he thought to be a particularly promising clump of decaying forest matter, rooting around for the plastic device as these thoughts flitted through Stiles' mind.

He was just about to suggest that they call it quits and that Scott should suck it up and tell Melissa he needed a new inhaler when he caught a dark shape out of the corner of his eye.

Aw, shit.

He hit Scott on the shoulder, gesturing for him to _get up and turn around_ _now_.

That dark shape was Derek Hale. The very same Derek Hale that Stiles hadn't seen in about seven years.

The dark shape that was now walking toward them.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, and he looked…annoyed. Okay, great. No acknowledged reunion then.

Stiles ducked his head, running his hand over the short bristles of his hair in embarrassment. This was the guy he had given _Moony_ to.

"This is private property," Derek reprimanded.

Scott was just standing there. He probably had no idea who this guy was, so Stiles replied, "Uh, sorry man, we didn't know."

"Yeah," Scott added. "We were just looking for something but…um…"

Derek raised his eyebrows, impatient.

"…Forget it," Scott finished.

Derek pulled something out of his jacket pocket and tossed it to Scott, nodding once before turning around and walking away.

Stiles barely processed that it was Scott's inhaler. All he could think about was the fact that he just saw a person that he hadn't seen since he was eight and a half. The last time he had seen Derek, the guy was sitting alone at the police station, his clothes covered in soot and dried tear tracks on his face that Stiles is still convinced Derek hadn't been aware of.

Despite being so much older, the first thought that had crossed Stiles' mind all those years ago was how young, how vulnerable and scared Derek had looked.

Stiles could barely reconcile it with the cold, closed off man he saw today.

He felt his mouth gaping open, but he couldn't seem to snap it shut. _Derek Hale _kept flashing in giant letters through his mind.

Scott looked over at him and said, "Alright, c'mon, I gotta get to work."

That finally jarred Stiles out of his shock, and he blinked at Scott.

"_Dude_," he said, slapping Scott's chest. "That was Derek Hale."

Scott stared at him blankly.

"You remember, right?" Stiles continued. "He's only, like, a few years older than us."

"Remember what?" Scott asked, and Stiles supposed that, no, it wouldn't have stuck with Scott. _He_ hadn't seen any of the Hales after it happened, hadn't been in the police station when the call came in. Stiles had never even told Scott about his brief interaction with Derek.

"His family," Stiles explained. "They all burned to death in a fire, like ten years ago."

Surprise flickered across Scott's face, and he looked after where Derek had walked away. "I wonder what he's doing back," he mused.

Stiles followed Scott's line of sight and huffed, shrugging his shoulders.

Why _was_ he back?

After another beat, Stiles started moving. "Come on," he said.

3

After that, Stiles felt _drawn_ to Derek. It was impossible to forget for even a moment that he was back in town, and once the whole werewolf thing started to go down with Scott, he was everywhere.

They kept being thrown together. Stiles talking to him in his dad's squad car, spending most of the day with him when he was dying of wolfsbane poisoning, holding him up for two hours in a swimming pool.

The day the alpha pack killed Boyd, when Derek's body had been used against him for the third time, had been used as a weapon, Stiles felt the same as he had that day at the police station.

He saw Derek crouched, frozen on the floor of the flooded loft, in _pain_. His hands were shaking, like they had eight years ago, and all Stiles could think about was the overwhelming urge to get to Derek. To do whatever he could to help him hurt a little less, to let him know that someone was there for him. He placed his hand on Derek's shoulder and for the first time, Derek didn't pull away. He didn't protest or give Stiles a look.

It was a touch meant for comfort, and Stiles hoped that at least part of Derek could see that, could accept it.

4

Deaton had been right. Of course he had been. No matter how obscure or frustratingly mysterious his caveats usually were, they were never wrong. The vet—emissary, whatever—knew his shit.

So Stiles could feel it. He could feel the darkness, every day, just like Deaton had said he would. It was like this pit in his gut, like a tightness of sadness in his chest that never went away.

The darkness kept growing larger and larger, until Stiles began to feel smaller. He wanted to curl in on himself, hold his limbs up tight against his torso in a fetal position and never come back out.

It got a little better when Derek came back.

_Derek _was a little better. Not completely healed; Stiles wasn't sure if that would ever be possible. But being away from Beacon Hills had definitely helped him. Cora had stayed behind with a pack they had met and she was finally happy, having found a place that she could call home. Stiles could tell that this made Derek's heart a little lighter, and he hoped that Derek would realize that he had a place that _he_ could call home as well.

Stiles.

Stiles would be Derek's home; his heart would hold him, keep him safe, even if it was filled with shadows.

And eventually, Derek saw that too.

5

Things weren't perfect, though.

Not yet.

Derek would catch Stiles rubbing a fist in circles on his chest, over his heart, sometimes. Whenever he asked about it, Stiles would give a humorless laugh.

"It's not something your werewolf-morphine can take away, Derek," he'd say quietly.

He wasn't sleeping at night either, instead tossing and turning with nightmares that Derek couldn't fight off, couldn't protect Stiles from. The circles under Stiles' eyes grew darker, more and more bruised looking every day, and he was starting to lose weight.

Derek could sense the almost tangible burden Stiles carried on his shoulders, and he knew that Stiles was close to shattering.

Derek knew what that felt like, and that's when he finally let himself remember.

+1

He drove to his old home and, for once, was glad that it was still standing. It carried a lot of pain, but it held something else inside of it, too. Something that Derek had buried under the floorboards years ago, something that he thought he'd never take back out.

He lifted a plank of rotten wood and stuck his hand through the narrow opening, searching, until his fingers brushed against forgotten softness.

When he got back Stiles was still in bed, blinking at Derek in the doorway of their dimly lit bedroom.

Without a word, Derek strode over and crouched in front of Stiles, cupping his face in the palms of his hands and resting his forehead against Stiles' for a moment. Stiles looked at him questioningly when he pulled away, and Derek reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket to pull out the stuffed wolf.

It was old now, older than when Stiles had given it to Derek, but because it hadn't been touched since the day Derek had stowed it, after Laura died, it looked almost the same.

Still well-worn, but very much well-loved.

Stiles breathed out in disbelief and touched it, resting his hand over Derek's where it was holding the stuffed animal. "You kept it," he said in awe.

"It's helped us both through difficult times," Derek explained. "And I think it can do that again."

Stiles smiled, a genuine smile that hadn't appeared on his face for a long time.

He laughed incredulously and placing a hand on his chest. Stiles stroked the childhood toy for a few moments before saying, in a disbelieving voice, "It already doesn't hurt as much anymore."

They looked into each other's eyes, and Derek pulled him close. "Ever since I met you, you would always see the signs, Stiles. For when I needed someone—needed you—the most. I'm sorry that it took me so long to return the favor."

Stiles ran a hand through Derek's hair, stroked a thumb over his cheekbone. "You never had to before, Sourwolf," he said softly. Another smile, smaller this time, tugged at his lips as he pulled Derek in for a kiss. "Thank you," he murmured against his lips.

As Derek entwined their fingers together he thanked Stiles, silently, back.

* * *

_You, you would always see the signs  
The echoes in my head they rhyme  
I felt they never went home at all  
Tomorrow is another day, that we need  
I don't know where I'll be searching for, the things I've seen  
And I'm a feeling all this things before I go through  
All that I would do I do for you, ohhh…_


End file.
